


Café Mariposa

by LadyEttejin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst, Baker Castiel (Supernatural), Bisexual Dean Winchester, Brothers, Castiel Has Issues (Supernatural), Cussing, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Eileen Leahy Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Everyone Has Issues, F/M, Found Family, Jealousy, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Misunderstandings, Other, Pining, Professor Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester Has Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:26:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28487538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyEttejin/pseuds/LadyEttejin
Summary: Dean's working through some things - and if you ask him, it has nothing to do with his recent breakup. He's getting into fights and getting into trouble, and maybe visiting a calm little bakery is exactly what he needs.Sam's working through some things - like how much he'll put up with, for example. Dean's taken over his apartment, and the rift between them is growing stronger by the day.Castiel's working through some things - dough, mostly. He'd much rather bake and create than acknowledge that there might be something missing from his life.Eileen's working through some things - like why that tall one keeps giving her that look, but not doing anything about it. And why that other one keeps giving Cas that look, but not doing anything about it. And why Cas doesn't seem to see it.
Relationships: Bobby Singer & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Castiel & Eileen Leahy, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 14
Kudos: 42





	1. Dean

**Author's Note:**

> I'll add more tags as things come up! If you have suggestions, send 'em my way. (This will get smutty, if I have anything to say about it. We'll see.)
> 
> Updates every Friday :)

“How about you shut the hell up for once?”

Dean slams the door behind him before Sam has a chance to reply to that. Even still, the sound of whatever that jackass is saying follows him through the door and down the stairwell. The tone is clear. The message is unmistakable. 

I know better than you, Dean. I AM better than you, Dean. I’m the mature one. You’re acting like a child. 

Which is such garbage. 

_You’re the child, you’re six years younger than me, you big baby,_ Dean throws back at Sam, winning the argument in his head.

Dean storms to his Impala in the parking lot and wrenches the door open. He slams himself down into the driver’s seat, and just before he can get the door shut behind him, he hears Sam’s voice again, along with the sound of those stupid clown feet coming down the stairs after him. “Get back here, Dean! I’m not finished with you!” _Well, pal, I’m finished with you,_ Dean thinks as he throws the car into reverse and peels out.

Out on the road, and he’s not feeling any better yet. His grip on the steering wheel is far too tight. Dean flexes his fingers. It’s not a neck, but it’ll do. Goddamn Sam and his superiority complex. 

_What gives him the right?_

Dean fumes as he drives aimlessly through the city. He’s not due at the garage for another hour, and he’s got nothing but time to kill. He’s not in the wrong here. He’s a grown man. He’s paying his half of the rent. It’s his goddamn apartment too. He should be able to do what he wants, do WHO he wants, in the privacy of his own goddamn apartment.

Dean shifts in his seat, remembering the acrobatics of the night before. Remembering Katie. Or Kitty. Kathy? Something like that. He shrugs it off. Names don’t matter. She’d called him Dan a few times at the bar before she’d rammed her tongue down his throat and after that, there wasn’t much reason to bother with formalities.

Dean sighs, a little ruefully. It hadn’t been that great. She’d spent a bit too much time nibbling on his earlobes, and then the act itself had lasted all of five minutes. And they’d broken that lamp. Dean grimaces a little, but then shrugs that off. It was an ugly lamp anyway. Green and square and in the wrong place at the wrong time. Who keeps a table lamp at the end of a couch like that? That’s Sam’s mistake.

And it’s not like Dean’s not already planning on replacing it. He’ll get his next paycheck at the end of the week, and then he can afford to go shopping. Just because he doesn’t have the money for it now doesn’t mean he’s not responsible. Just because he’s down to his last ten bucks doesn’t mean he’s not responsible. Just because he’s sleeping on a couch doesn’t mean he’s not responsible. He’s paying rent, god damn it. He’s doing his goddamn best.

_Banging random chicks at three in the morning, that’s your best? ___

__Dean clenches his teeth and tells himself to shut the hell up too. Sam hadn’t even known there’d been anything to object to until he’d gotten up for work and stepped in broken lamp. Thank god for those ridiculous noise-cancelling headphones. They’d originally been to block out the sounds of the train running practically through the kitchen, but when Dean had moved in, well, they picked up a bonus application. Sam had made some half-assed joke about not being woken up by Dean’s dump truck snoring, but they’d both known what those headphones would really be blocking out._ _

__“Only one way to beat a broken heart, Sammy.”_ _

__Dean clenches his teeth again. He doesn’t want to think about that. He never wants to think about that again. That’s what the booze is for. That’s what the sex is for. That’s what all of this bullshit is for. Moving in with Sam, taking the job with Bobby at the garage, the ache in his back, the scars and busted knuckles and oil stains that he’ll never get out from under his fingernails. All of it. What good is any of it if he can’t let go of the goddamn past?_ _

__Dean’s so lost in his angry thoughts that he almost runs a red light. He slams on the brakes and lets out a hiss. The roads are just about empty this early in the morning, but he’s cussing out his own carelessness anyway. Five seconds later he redirects that anger. If Sam hadn’t decided to start something this morning. If Sam had just accepted an apology without deciding it needed a lecture too. If Sam had just backed off. Dean wouldn’t be here in the first place._ _

__It takes Dean a second to realize the light’s turned green. The car horn behind him startles him back into the present, and he puts his foot on the gas again. So he’s not entirely alone on the road. He glances in his rearview mirror at the car behind him, and sees the woman at the wheel just lowering her hand. He can only assume it was at best a gesture of annoyance, and at worst she’d flipped him the bird. He slows, deliberately. He’s got time to kill, and now he’s got a reason._ _

__He grins. Her expression in the mirror is exactly as annoyed as he’d wanted to make her. She flips her head to the side to scope out the other lane, and then speeds around him. He checks out her car as she passes by. It’s a good one. Seventies model, strong red, looks like a Valiant. You didn’t see many of those around nowadays. He certainly hasn’t had a chance to work on one at the garage yet. The way this one’s driving, though, maybe he’ll have that chance sooner than later. Either he’s really pissed her off, or she’s late for something. She takes a screeching left turn at the end of the block._ _

__He checks his watch. He’s got another half hour. Forty-five minutes, if Bobby’s feeling generous today. He shrugs. He’s got no place to be just yet, and he was driving around aimlessly, after all. Who’s to say he wouldn’t have chosen to drive this way anyway? He takes a left turn, following that car._ _

__This stretch of road has too many potholes for Dean’s liking, and he frowns as he swerves left and right to avoid them. He notices that the Valiant in front of him is managing it too. She’s got a real steady hand at the wheel. When she swings wide into a parking lot, Dean has to admit, that was some smooth driving._ _

__He passes by just as she leaps from her car. She’s throwing her dark hair into a ponytail and doing a frantic half jog toward some kind of restaurant. Dean can’t get a good look at it before he’s passed by, so he decides to circle the block._ _

__Getting around takes him a minute, and by the time he finally makes it back, there’s already another car in that parking lot. He glances one more time at his watch. He’s got the time to check it out, if he wants to._ _

__He debates._ _

__He decides._ _

__He parks on the far end, and then leans against his car for a second to give the joint a solid study._ _

__It’s a real welcoming kind of place. Two story wooden building, painted light blue or maybe purple, Dean can’t quite tell, and the whole ground floor’s a café. The wall facing the parking lot and the street is one big window, with a light inside that’s warm but not too bright, and there’s a wooden sign hanging above the door - Café Mariposa, it says in gently curving calligraphy. Looking in, Dean can see a row of round tables against the far wall. There’s an older lady, probably around sixty, sitting at one of the tables. She’s sipping at a mug of coffee, and there’s another mug for the chair across from her. There’s an older man, around her same age - her husband, maybe - standing by the register on the left. He’s leaning with one elbow on the counter, tapping his fingers slowly. It’s a glass display case, and Dean’s immediately intrigued. Cookies. Pastries. Cupcakes. They have a surprising variety, and the colors are almost overwhelming. They didn’t leave a single one out, apparently. Dean stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and casually heads toward the building._ _

__Dean swings open the door and enters the room. It’s warm in here, and the aromas in the air hit him all at once. Cinnamon, that’s the strongest, but there’s fresh bread, and something sweet - honey and brown sugar? Dean’s stomach growls. Breakfast sounds good. When was the last time he ate a real meal? He’s been running on beer and pretzels for too long._ _

__A door behind the counter swings open, and the brunette comes out. She’s carrying two large white plates, one in each hand. Looks like a full breakfast from here - eggs, bacon, cinnamon roll. Dean’s mouth waters._ _

__“You really don’t have to wait, Mr. Becket! I’ll bring it to you,” she says. There’s a rolling quality to her words, a quick overlapping cadence. Dean notices it, but doesn’t quite register it._ _

__“Same as every day, I’ve got it, kiddo,” the old man says. He lifts one hand to his chin and makes a gesture toward her. “Thank you.” Then it registers - she’s deaf. Dean doesn’t know much ASL, but he knows that one._ _

__The woman smiles and hands him the plates. “You’re welcome,” she says._ _

__The old man makes his way back to his waiting wife, and Dean moseys up to take his turn at the register. “Hey,” he says._ _

__“Good morning,” she says. Her smile is bright and welcoming. “What can I get you?”_ _

__“What they’re having looks good,” Dean says, gesturing with his thumb back toward the old couple at the table._ _

__“Good choice,” she says, pressing keys at the register. “Anything else?”_ _

__“Nah, I’m good.” _For now._ Dean’s eyes flicker over the cookies in the display case. He might buy something else on his way out. Then again, some of these, he can’t imagine actually eating them. The details alone. How long must it have taken to paint those wildflowers on? What kind of crazy person makes not only a cookie shaped like a dragon but then also a tiny cookie for the dragon to eat?_ _

__“One more early bird,” the woman calls into the back. She walks over to the coffee pot and fills a new mug. “That’ll be five even,” she says as she slides him his mug. “Cream or sugar?”_ _

__“Nah, thanks, I’ll drink it black.” Dean pulls his wallet from his back pocket and takes out the last of his cash. He sighs a little, handing it over. But these are the choices he’s made. And goddamn if those cinnamon rolls don’t smell amazing._ _

__She hands him his change, a single five dollar bill, and he slides it back into his wallet. That’s all he’s got. Five dollars to his name. But his gas tank is full, his rent is paid, and there’s only a few more days until payday. Bobby might spot him some too, worse comes to worst._ _

__He takes up the mug and tips it toward her. “Thanks again.”_ _

__“My pleasure,” she says, and she gives him that same smile again. It’s definitely just good customer service, but at the same time, it’s a real nice smile.__

__Dean doesn’t get genuine smiles like that too often._ _

__He gives her a quick one back and then goes to claim one of the tables. He picks the one on the far end, so he won’t crowd that old couple. Dean sips his coffee. It’s good. He sighs again and settles back into his chair._ _


	2. Eileen

Eileen crouches down behind the counter, snapping up the excuse of straightening the displays. It’s the perfect vantage point to peek without being spotted. She studies the new customer as he shrugs out of his jacket. 

He’s clean shaven, with short brown hair in an unassuming cut. He’s wearing denim jeans, brown boots, and a plain black tee under a red unbuttoned long sleeved flannel, rumpled enough that she wonders if maybe he slept in it. All together, he looks a bit disheveled, but mostly harmless. 

Even so, her nerves are up. That’s the guy that she’d passed on her way here. She hadn’t got a good look at the driver, but that car! It’s a classic, beautifully maintained, shiny black and absolutely unmistakable, and now it’s parked out front. Is it a red flag, or is she overthinking things?

_He may really just be here for breakfast._

The man sets his mug on the table and lifts his right hand to rub the back of his neck. He stretches, with his arm still crooked up behind him, and his chest expands. The way his cotton tee hugs his muscles causes her eyebrows to rise unconsciously. He’s very attractive. His symmetrical face is almost too perfect - but then there are those dark circles under his eyes. The man doesn’t look like he’s gotten a good night’s sleep in months. The coffee might help. But probably not. Caffeine is a bandaid, not what he really needs. 

He’s not paying her any attention, which is a relief. A stalker would have made more effort to watch her. This guy is clearly in his own world. She would put aside those notions of red flags, but there’s something in his expression. The set of his jaw, the heaviness of his brow. _Anger,_ she thinks. _Frustration. Resentment._ A dangerous cocktail of emotions, simmering just below the surface. _Who knows when emotions like that will overflow._ Eileen’s had enough of that in her life to be wary of it now.

He lifts his coffee mug, and her eyes are drawn to his hands. They’re strong, solid, sturdy. Hard working hands. She wonders idly what he does for a living. _Construction work, maybe, with that new office complex over on Main,_ she thinks. There’s been an influx of new people in town from that development - maybe he’s one of them.

But she’s been pretending to straighten the display for a minute too long. Cas has definitely plated up the meal by now. She scoots one last cupcake a millimeter to the left, and then stands up. Even then, with her rising back into his line of sight, he doesn’t even glance over at her. That’s good. She decides, officially, he’s not a stalker. It’s just a coincidence he’s here.

Eileen meets Mrs. Becket’s eyes on her way to the kitchen. Mrs. Becket gives her a wink, and Eileen smiles. The café has a handful of regular customers, but the Beckets are Eileen’s absolute favorites. They’ve been coming to Café Mariposa ever since the grand opening two years ago, every morning like clockwork.

Eileen likes having the routine. Rhythm is comforting. Having a set pattern, knowing what to do and how to do it, working at the café suits her perfectly. It’s only after she clocks out at closing that things get confusing. She frowns at the thought.

As she enters the kitchen, she sees she was right. Cas has already moved on from plating the early bird breakfast. He’s at the decorating station now, standing over a mixing bucket, gloved hands buried up to the wrist in rainbow sprinkles. Cas looks up at her, and immediately stops mixing. He straightens and takes half a step toward her. His bright blue eyes blink at her in concern. 

She sighs a little. She loves his face so much. He’s always so open and unguarded. Eileen never has to decipher what he’s thinking. She never has to question his motives, or worry about what he might do next. He’s the best person on this planet, and the only real friend she has. Other people are so much work. 

_What’s wrong?_ he signs to her.

There are a few sprinkles stuck to his gloves, and it makes her smile. _Nothing really,_ she signs back. _Just thinking about the website._

That website. Trying to make it appealing, trying to make it modern, trying to link it to her email account to arrange ordering online, it’s almost enough to make her pull her hair out. It was definitely enough to make her run late this morning. But they need it. They need a working, functional website to draw more customers to the café. And then there’s the Café Mariposa Facebook account to run, and she needs to get started on an Instagram too. It really is the least she can do to figure out this whole social media thing. With Cas doing practically everything else, she needs to contribute something. Something real, something tangible, not just running the register.

He tilts his head to one side, still concerned. _I can help._

“No,” she says out loud. “You have your hands full.” She gestures at the mixing bucket.

He glances back at the table. It takes him a second to realize what she means. But then he chuckles and he shakes his head at her. “I’d hardly call this having my hands full. I’m only mixing sprinkles,” he says.

“Mixing, and baking, and decorating, and keeping this place running.” Eileen signs and talks at the same time, feeling the need for emphasis. He needs to understand. He does so much. He does too much. “And cooking,” she says, picking up the waiting plate and utensils. “Don’t worry about the website. I’ve got it.”

She gives him a firm smile, and he gives her a slow nod. She can tell she hasn’t quite won him over yet, but she’s not giving him any choice on this. She needs to make herself useful. She needs to repay him for giving her this job, for trusting her as much as he does, for being her best friend. He deserves the world, and she’ll give him as much of that as she can manage.

She goes back out into the café just as the front door opens, and a middle-aged woman in a beige woolen scarf and matching cap comes in. 

Eileen smiles. “Welcome to Café Mariposa. I’ll be with you in a minute!” 

A flicker of an emotion passes over the woman’s face - _discomfort, distaste_ \- and Eileen’s stomach clenches. She hates this feeling. She hates the way the tiniest expressions can make her feel. Sometimes, she really wishes she didn’t notice quite so much. She forces herself to keep smiling as she finishes delivering the early bird breakfast to the man in plaid.

“Smells great,” he says. He’s smiling at her, but she can tell by his glazed expression that he’s still half a mile away mentally. That’s fine. It’s only distraction. It could be worse. It could be unease, like what’s drifting over her way from the woman standing at the display case. 

Eileen forces herself to focus on the conversation at hand. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can get you.”

“Thanks,” the man says. Then, she sees his mood shift. His green eyes brighten, and they turn toward the name tag pinned to her apron. “Thank you, Eileen,” he says as he raises his hand to his chin. _Thank you,_ he gestures.

Eileen’s chest warms, and that unhappy clench in her gut dissipates a bit. “Of course,” she says. “Enjoy!”

She carries that warmth with her as she rounds the counter again, and even when faced with the chill in the new customer’s face, Eileen feels okay. She’s in her café, working for her best friend, with two regulars who love her, and now she’s been acknowledged by a new guy too. A handsome one at that! It’s a good feeling.

The beige lady asks for a dozen chocolate cupcakes. This woman’s voice is too loud, and too slow. Some people make Eileen regret her hearing aids. Eileen bites back the urge to bristle. Instead, she keeps the smile plastered on her face, and boxes up the cupcakes. A sale is a sale. A customer is a customer. Five minutes of her life, and she can continue with her day.

Eileen puts the full box on the counter, then goes to the register to ring up the purchase. As she types at the keys, she glances up toward the friendly man. He’s already eaten his bacon and eggs, and now he’s lifting the cinnamon roll. The Beckets usually eat theirs with their forks. Most customers do. Cas’s cinnamon rolls are a monolith of gooey bake and rich icing. But this guy, he’s just going for it. 

Eileen almost laughs at the change in him. His eyes are fully awake now, bright and wide with anticipation. He opens his mouth and takes as large a bite as he possibly can. He starts to chew. He closes his eyes, and he melts back into his chair. That expression… It’s nothing short of rapture. Eileen is mesmerized. Cas is a brilliant baker, absolutely. Everything he bakes is delicious. But she’s never seen anyone have THIS kind of response.

“Excuse me,” the beige woman says. Her tone implies impatience, but the implication is barely necessary - she’s also waving one of her hands. Eileen has to disregard the guilt that flares up. She’d paused for a moment. A few seconds. Nothing to feel guilty about. If anything, she should feel angry. The hand in her face, that was rude.

“Twenty-five dollars, please,” Eileen says.

The woman doesn’t reply except to thrust out her bank card. Eileen takes it and runs it through the reader. The payment goes through, the woman picks up her box, and the second she exits back out into the world, Eileen feels the muscles in her shoulders relax.

She needs to learn to not let people get to her. She needs to learn how to absorb the good and ignore the bad. She’d almost done it today. Cas. Mr. and Mrs. Becket. New guy.

At that thought, she looks back over to him. He’s leaning forward, one elbow resting on his table. He’s got his head tilted a little downward now, and his eyes are still closed. The cinnamon roll is half gone, and he’s chewing thoughtfully on the bite in his mouth. Whatever he’d been worried about when he came in, he’s forgotten about it now.

She’s going to have to tell Cas. He’ll be pleased.

She can’t go back there just yet, though, because the Beckets are just finishing their meal. They come up to the counter on their way out. Mrs. Becket orders a bag of the cheesecake macaroons to take with them, and Mr. Becket brags to Eileen about little Susan’s acceptance into Baylor. It’s nice. It’s almost like having grandparents. Like having a real family. Eileen loves this part of the job so much.

As she rings up the macaroons, Eileen sees the new customer finish his cinnamon roll. He seems almost sad to be done with it. He looks up, and sees her watching him. Her heart gives a guilty little leap, but then he smiles. He gestures _thank you_ again. Before she can respond, he looks down at his watch. His lips pull back in a grimace, and then he’s out the door. Eileen blinks in surprise at the speed of it all.

“Always in a hurry,” Mr. Becket says, shaking his head as that classic car revs to life and takes off.

“Let the boy be,” Mrs. Becket says, tapping on the back of his hand with her fingers. “You were young once too, George.”

“Was I?” Mr. Becket gives his wife a grin. “I never.”

Mr. and Mrs. Becket laugh with each other. They pay for the macaroons, and then they leave, walking arm in arm, jostling each other playfully. Eileen watches them go, smiling after them. It really does make her day, knowing they’ll be here, knowing they’ll be exactly the same beautiful, pleasant couple every time. Routine. Comfort. Perfection.

But then, when Eileen goes to clear the tables, that comfortable routine is instantly disrupted. She feels a prickle of anxiety, one that she chides herself for feeling. It’s so minor. It’s hardly anything. But it’s a sign that mistakes have been made. The man in plaid has left his jacket behind.


	3. Sam

Sam has the broom and dustpan out, and he’s already down on one knee before he stops to think about what he’s doing. Why is he cleaning up Dean’s mess? 

Sam rises to his feet and props the broom up against the wall. He sets the dustpan down on the side table, where the lamp should have been. HAD been, until something happened. Something Sam doesn’t want to think about too closely. Those headphones are really paying for themselves.

He grumbles, deep in his throat, looking down at the carnage Dean and Company have wrought. It’s irritating, not to mention irresponsible and dangerous, having shards of broken pottery scattered across the living room. But he can resist the urge to clean it immediately. It’s the principle of the thing. For one thing, he’ll be late to work if he stays much longer. For another, Dean can pick up his own mess for once.

Sam finds his thoughts drifting as he straightens his tie in the mirror by the front door. He’s had six years now to come to terms with it, but even still, every now and then, seeing himself wearing an actual honest to god suit surprises him. Sam Winchester, college professor. Who’d have believed it?

Certainly not him. 

Growing up, Sam had never once seen himself actually making it this far into this career. He’d wanted it, absolutely. Dreamed of it. But he’d thought that was all it was. A dream. Completely unattainable against the reality of the situation. Reality was following his father’s footsteps. Reality was joining the force, like John Winchester had always wanted from his sons. Like he’d raised them to do. Like he’d expected them to do.

Like he’d commanded.

Sam had been resigned to obeying those orders, too. Even after his father had that heart attack, even once he was no longer actively pushing for that act of filial duty, there’d been no question. It was just what the Winchesters did. Just like Grandpa Henry had done. Just like John had done. Just like Dean had done. Sam Winchester would finish his last year of high school and put in his application to join his father's precinct. 

Then he’d met Jess.

Sam feels a sharp jab under his ribs. That old familiar pain that ten years passing has never dulled. _Jess, Jess, Jess,_ and his heart aches with every beat. He can’t make it stop. He pauses halfway through his Windsor and meets his eyes in his reflection. _You’re okay,_ he tells himself. _You’re okay._

Some days it’s harder to believe than other days.

He stares into his own eyes and makes himself breathe. He roots himself to the present. Sam Winchester. Professor of language and linguistics. Who’s going to be late if he can’t pull himself together. He sighs, forcing his muscles to relax, and the ache in his chest subsides. Not entirely. Never entirely. But enough that he can get on with the day. He grabs his briefcase and makes his way outside.

There’s a bit of a chill in the air this morning, but not enough to justify going back upstairs for a coat. Sam’s three piece suit is warm enough for the short walk to campus. This path is so familiar to him now, he could trace it in his sleep, so he allows his thoughts to drift again.

Thinking back over what he’d said to Dean this morning, Sam feels a stab of regret. He overreacted. It was just a broken lamp. Accidents happen. He should be more understanding. Dean’s really going through something. 

_Something._

Whatever it is, Sam’s having to infer most of it, because Dean’s not talking. Sam shuts his eyes for a moment to resist rolling them. He’s not sure whether it’s at Dean, or if it’s at himself for expecting anything different. Dean’s never been much of a talker to begin with, and when it’s something really important? Forget about it. Might as well converse with a brick wall.

It would have been nice to know he’d been seeing somebody in the first place, though. Especially when it was this serious. Serious enough to make Dean drop everything, literally everything, and move up here. It would have been nice to know more about Dean’s life back in Kansas. Sam had thought he knew enough, in general, but now, mulling on it, he’s not so sure. Their phone calls over the last few years have been so basic, so perfunctory.

_How ya doing?_

_Good, good. You?_

_Can’t complain._

_Cool. Talk to you later._

It hasn't always been this way. In those first few years, when Sam was still just an undergrad at Stanford, their phone calls had been different. Dean would regale Sam about what he and the guys had done that week, cases he was working, criminals he’d caught. It always felt a bit on the nose. 

_Come on in, buddy, the water’s fine._

But then, maybe because Sam refused to take the bait, Dean had stopped talking about that aspect of his life altogether. The calls had come less regularly, and the conversations distanced. Become more like chitchat than actual communication. Sam regrets that more than anything. He doesn’t really know what Dean’s life has been like the past few years. He doesn’t know much at all.

Maybe if he’d made more of an effort, Sam would understand more about why Dean had called him out of the blue, asking for a couch to surf.

 _But then again,_ Sam thinks. He looks both ways before crossing the street. _Why doesn’t matter._ When your brother calls you, with that tone in his voice - completely shattered and desperately trying to sound like anything but - if you can help him, you help. If that means giving up a little bit of living space, if that means seeing so many used condoms in the wastebasket, if that means broken appliances, then---

 _NO,_ Sam stops himself. 

There were limits here, heartbroken or not. Lines being crossed.

Sam’s gotten used to living on his own. Maybe that’s the real problem. He’s gotten comfortable with being alone. It’s proving difficult to go back to the life he left behind all those years ago. Hard to go back to living on top of each other, crammed into a space too small for two, shoving each other aside at the bathroom sink to brush their teeth, fighting over who gets the first shower and the hot water.

But sharing the apartment was a choice he’d made willingly. Sam has to admit that. He knows full well there's an underlying reason he’d said Dean could stay, and what he was hoping would come of it. It could give them a chance to be brothers again. Real brothers. Not just this weird almost acquaintance thing that’s happened between them. Playing vague catch up over the phone, more like old high school friends than two men who’d once been the most important person in each other’s lives. They could get back to that, with a little effort. If Sam could just get over himself. If Dean could just be a little more responsible.

They need to have a real talk about it. Sam sighs. Dean won’t want to do it. He’ll have to be dragged into it. But it needs to happen. Otherwise, where will they end up? Sam strides across campus, strategizing. _Look, Dean._ No, he can’t start that way, too combative right out of the gate. _So… I know it’s been rough._ A little better. Maybe a bit too vague.

He’ll just have to start. That’s all it is. If he hesitates, he’s going to stall.

If he stalls...

Sam reaches his lecture hall. He’s only a few minutes behind schedule, but the students inside are already debating how soon they can leave. 

“Fifteen minutes,” he hears Corey Latimer say. “That’s the rule.”

Sam shakes his head and forces himself to drop the wry smile that appears on his face. New year, new students, same old arguments. He is glad he didn’t waste time back at the apartment, though. He absolutely would not put it past Corey Latimer to lead a mass exodus the second the clock hit a quarter past. 

When he enters the room, he can practically feel the disappointment radiating at him in heavy waves. “Good morning,” he says, ignoring it.

There are a few murmurs, a few half-hearted greetings, but not much response. That’s okay. It’s an 8 AM class, they’re only a few weeks into the semester, and this particular class is only Tuesday/Thursday. Most of these kids are freshmen, and none of the students who signed up for this morning course have had classes with him before. It’ll take a minute for familiarity to breed.

A turn of phrase that Sam instantly regrets. He tries to keep his expression blank as he opens his briefcase and starts passing out the handouts he’s printed to accompany today’s lecture. He wants neither familiarity nor breeding from any of these people. Finding his score on that professor rating website had been jarring, to say the least. Far, far too many students had checked the chili pepper option when they’d submitted their reviews. Why did they even HAVE that option? Surely their rating metric should focus on the instructor’s teaching acumen, without needing to measure physical attributes as well. Surely.

That might be something he could actually talk to Dean about, though. Dean would find it funny. It could be a way to segue into seriousness. Sam sighs and tells himself to put that thought aside. 

He needs to start the lecture.

He needs to talk to Dean.

His mind is being pulled in two different directions.

Sam sighs again, mentally regrouping. On to the task at hand. He can do this.

He’s Professor Winchester, after all.


	4. Castiel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW homophobia - it's not much but it's present. Cas deserves better and ffs he's gonna get it.

Cas watches multicolored sprinkles tumble against each other, enjoying the kaleidoscope effect shimmering between his hands. His mind starts rifling through all the possibilities. _The ice cream cones again,_ he thinks. Those sold well. But with these colors, he’s tempted to try something new. Something mythical. A Phoenix. Wings outspread, flames below. He doesn’t have a cutter for that. He’ll need to make a new one. Or he could always just add a horn to the pony cutter from the Matterson birthday, make it a unicorn. That won’t be too complicated, he can do that tonight after closing.

He works on autopilot as his mind spirals out, following that thought. 

A whole range of mythical shapes. Unicorn, griffin, mermaid, hippocampus, gorgon. 

A series based on the Greek pantheon. A lightning bolt, a bow and arrow, a trident, a pomegranate. 

Grapes, orange slices, strawberries, cherries.

The ideas keep rolling at him, one after the other, and he files them away in his mental cabinets. He’s got quite a stockpile amassed up here. There’s never enough time in the day. Even still, this is his favorite thing to do - ponder new possibilities and flex those creative muscles. It’s peaceful. Almost meditative.

The timer dings and brings him out of it. It’s a little jarring, and a little displeasing, but it’s okay. He can - and will - continue making plans later. Right now, he’s got an oven to check on.

He strips off his sprinkle-mixing gloves and drops them on the table, then crosses the kitchen and peeks through the oven’s glass window. On both inner racks, the cookies are browning nicely. A minute more and they’ll be perfect.

Cas reaches for his oven mitts. They’re bright red and ridiculous, shaped like lobster claws. He would absolutely never have purchased them for himself. And yet he can’t imagine ever wearing any others. He can still picture the mirthful grin on Eileen’s face when she’d handed them to him, barely disguised by uneven wrapping paper.

That, though, is why he loves them so much. If they hadn’t come as a birthday gift from Eileen, they wouldn’t hold near as much a place in his heart as they do. He’s loved every gift she’s ever given him, despite their unwavering, unapologetic ridiculousness. The house slippers shaped like penguins. The wool-knit sock monkey hat. These vibrant red lobster claw oven mitts. He smiles as he pulls them on. 

He loves the gifts, because he loves her. She’s his best friend. She’s his family.

She’s his only family. 

He has blood relatives, but none of them count as family. Not anymore. It was difficult to come to terms with, but Cas has done it. Every now and then, when events dredge up memories of his brothers and sisters, it stings, but Cas tries not to dwell on it. He tells himself it’s not as if he’s the only child to be disowned. And in the end, their opinions, their beliefs, they don’t matter. What matters is that Cas is doing very well for himself. He’s accepted himself, every aspect of himself. He’s grown.

And maybe - who is he kidding, obviously - he named Café Mariposa to reflect that.

Pride is a hell of a thing.

Cas opens the oven and carefully removes the first baking sheet. He lets out a slow, gratified breath. This batch turned out just as he’d intended. Perfectly circular, perfectly smooth, perfectly golden brown. A perfect blank canvas. He’ll really be able to get creative, decorating these.

He takes the tray to the cooling rack, then goes back for the other set. As he pulls out the baking sheet, he hears the door to the kitchen swing open behind him. He turns, and immediately his eyes are drawn to the hefty tan coat draped over Eileen’s arm.

He doesn’t get the question out. He barely has time to tilt his head to the side before she says, “It was an accident. I didn’t steal it.”

If it were someone else, Cas would wonder if they were making a joke of some kind. But it’s Eileen, and Cas knows her well enough to recognize the anxiety in her voice. He gives her a nod. “Of course. What happened?”

“He left it behind,” she explains, and her voice is quick and breathless. His eyes narrow. That’s not just anxiety now. 

_Why do you sound like that?_ he wonders without asking.

Before he can suss her out, she turns to hang the coat on a spare peg on the apron rack. She’s not facing him, but she tells him anyway, “That other early bird. He left this here. After he ate.”

Cas waits until Eileen turns back to him. “You’re happy,” he says, his eyes still narrowed at her.

Eileen’s mouth is stretched thin - she’s practically vibrating with anxiety - but there’s a light in her eyes as she meets Cas’s gaze. “He’ll come back for it,” she says, as if that explains everything.

Which, half a second of thinking later, it does.

Cas smiles as he puts the second tray down to cool. _It’s about time,_ he thinks. When was the last time Eileen showed any interest in anyone? Cas honestly can’t remember. But he does wonder about that sometimes. 

If this life is really enough for her.

Eileen spends her entire day in the café, and as if that weren’t enough, now she’s taking work home with her. Despite her assurances, it still worries him. Café Mariposa is his dream, not hers, and the last thing in the world he wants is to usurp her life. 

Maybe this is the start of something she could have outside of the café.

“You want to see him again,” he says, half-questioning. 

Cas watches her expression as she goes through at least five thoughts in as many seconds. He wonders for a moment whether she might actually vocalize those thoughts, but then she gives him a smile, and she says, “If you’d seen him, you’d want to see him again.” _Gorgeous,_ she signs without repeating it aloud, almost unconsciously, as if she’s not actively thinking about it.

Cas isn’t a thousand percent sure if his assumptions are correct, but it’s starting to seem like they might be.

Eileen glances back into the café through the small round window in the kitchen door. She's not quite tall enough to see easily through, and honestly, Cas thinks it's adorable the way she has to stand on her tiptoes. She turns back to Cas, and she meets his eyes. “We have a customer. I’ll tell you about the cinnamon roll later.”

On that last cryptic note, she disappears back out into the café. 

Cas turns back toward the kitchen, and he has to reboot his train of thought. Where was he? Cookies out of the oven. Sprinkles mixed. Frosting, that was it.

He gathers the ingredients - eggs and confectioners’ sugar. There are multiple ways to make this icing, but Cas always goes for this method when it comes to his cookies. It’s simple, and leaves him more time to spend on the decoration part of the process. 

Separating the eggs takes him no time at all. Cas puts the yolks into a bowl and stores them in the fridge for later. _Danishes,_ he plans ahead, _or the pain au chocolat._ Then the egg whites go into the mixer, followed incrementally by the sugar. The whirr of the mixer fades from Cas’s notice as he watches the frosting form. Soft, thick peaks - beautiful. He’ll need to thin it out a bit with water, but this is working out just perfectly.

Almost perfectly.

His eyes, despite his best efforts, keep getting drawn to that coat that isn’t supposed to be here. He’s thinking about Eileen, and her reaction, and he’s finding himself wondering just what this stranger might look like if he’s earned that kind of praise.

He switches off the mixer and goes so far as to grab an icing bag, but then… It’s a ridiculous notion, but... Maybe there’s identification in the coat. He could find some way to let the man know he’s left it behind. That’s not being intrusive. That’s being thoughtful.

Who is he kidding. His curiosity is getting the better of him. It’s nothing but weak justification to deny that. He puts everything down on the counter and walks over to the apron rack.

He glances through the window into the café. Eileen is helping two children with their mother at the counter. He smiles. She’s good with children. She’d make a good mother.

And then he wonders again.

At that, he gingerly lifts the coat sleeve and reaches beneath it into one of the pockets. His fingers meet something, and carefully he pulls it out. It’s a plastic bag, tucked around itself, holding a small box. Cas unwraps it and peeks inside.

The box is open, some of the contents removed. Value pack, it says. Durex.

Cas’s face suddenly feels very hot. 

He chides himself as he rewraps the box and returns it to the jacket pocket. This awful, ridiculous embarrassment, feeling guilty for trespassing into someone else’s... private affairs... This is what he gets for snooping, which, justification or not, is what he’s doing. He starts to walk away, but then - who is he kidding - he looks at the coat again. 

In for a penny, in for a pound.

He reaches into the coat, and just as his fingers hit something, there’s a sudden burst of guitar music. Cas yanks out his hand reflexively as his heart leaps into his throat. The music continues, the chorus of some song or another. _It’s a cellphone,_ he realizes through that roaring in his ears. He takes in a deep breath and forces his pulse to come back under control.

Awful. Ridiculous.

He takes another deep breath and pulls out the cellphone. It’s an older model, but touchscreen. Cas hits the call button and lifts the phone to his ear.

“Bout damn time, ya idjit,” grumbles a masculine voice on the other end of the line. “Ya forget it’s Tuesday?”

Cas clears his throat. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m not who you intended to reach.”

The voice asks, “Who is this?” just as Cas goes to explain further, “The gentleman who owns this phone left his coat behind.”

“That don’t answer the question. Raises a couple more. Who are you, and how come you got Dean’s phone?”

Cas clears his throat again. “I run the Café Mariposa, on May Avenue. Your friend Dean stopped by for breakfast this morning and left his coat behind. We’ll hold it for him here, until he can come back to get it.”

“I see.” There’s the smallest of pauses, and the caller says, “Bout how long ago did he do that?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest,” Cas answers. “Ten minutes?”

“I see.” This time, the voice is lower, even grumblier, if that’s possible. “I’ll let him know you’ve got it. If he ever gets his ass in gear.”

“Anything I can do to help,” Cas says.

“Thanks. Appreciate it.” With that, the call ends.

Cas puts the phone back into the pocket, brushing against something else in there as he does, but he makes himself walk away. Knowing for sure that the message will be passed along, knowing for an absolute certainty that the rightful owner will be coming back for the coat, lends an altogether too heavy sense of reality onto the situation.

Even though that felt like a wallet in that pocket.

Even though there’s probably a driver’s license in it.

Even though.


	5. Dean

Dean pulls into his spot in the employee parking behind the garage. As he checks his watch, he lets out a groan. It’s worse than he thought. He’s almost forty minutes late. He really hadn’t had the time to stop this morning.

But god damn, he’s glad he did. 

He absentmindedly runs his tongue over his teeth, relishing the lingering taste of rich cinnamon in his mouth. The way it’s got him feeling, he doesn’t want to bother with brushing his teeth tonight. Hell, maybe not even tomorrow.

The whole thing had been the center of the roll. How’d they manage that?

_The stuff that dreams are made of,_ he hears Humphrey Bogart say in his head.

_Damn straight, buddy._

As Dean locks his car behind him, he does his best to drop those thoughts. He’s got five dollars left to last four days. The math doesn’t add up, any way you slice it. He lets out a heavy sigh. 

_Maybe,_ his brain whispers in rebellion, _maybe you could skip the whole breakfast. Just do the cinnamon roll._

Now that’s a thought.

As he strolls in through the back entrance, Dean can’t help but keep his eyes peeled for Bobby. There’s a reckoning coming, and yeah, okay, maybe Dean deserves it. Maybe he definitely deserves it. Still, he’d like to avoid it for as long as he can manage.

“Morning, Dean,” he hears to his left.

Dean jumps, and immediately hates himself for it. 

It’s just Garth. Standing there with a wrench in one hand and a grease-streaked rag in the other, grinning at Dean with that wide lopsided mouth of his. “We had a bet on when you’d be getting in.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean relaxes his shoulders and slides into a deliberately casual pose. “Who’s the big winner?”

“Winner winner, chicken dinner,” Ash says, stretching out from underneath the ‘95 Accord in bay one. He’s got both arms up on either side of his head, fists clenched in victory. Superman doing the backstroke. “Quarter to, on the dot.”

“Bobby said he was going to call you,” Garth says. There’s a layer of delicacy in his voice. Dean takes it to mean Bobby had a few more choice words than that, but Garth is being tactful.

“He hasn’t---” Dean reaches for his pocket and cuts himself off to let out a hiss. “Shit. Don’t have my phone.”

Or his coat. Or his wallet. Shit.

For half a second he thinks he must have left it in the car. He even takes a step back toward the rear door, before he remembers. He can remember taking it off. He can remember hooking it over the back of his chair. But he can’t remember picking it back up. Shit.

“Ya left it behind, idjit.”

_SHIT._

Dean hesitates. He can’t help it. He can’t face Bobby until he’s got his expression under control. When he does turn around, he’s tossing Bobby a sideways grin. The kind that says, _I’m a harmless and loveable scamp._ The kind of grin that’s gotten him out of trouble before. “Hey, Bobby.”

Bobby doesn’t even crack a smile. His eyebrows are a steady brick line beneath the brim of his brown ball cap. “Upstairs,” he says. Then he turns and marches away. He doesn’t wait for Dean to follow. Like he knows he doesn’t have to.

The lukewarm confidence Dean has managed to shore up shatters inside him. God damn it, why does this feel like he’s being called to the principal’s office? Sam’s censure he can deal with, but Bobby… That’s another thing altogether. Dean can feel Garth and Ash staring at his back, waiting to see his reaction. 

He can handle this. 

He’s a grown man, god damn it.

Dean tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and saunters after Bobby, aiming for casual, careless. That feels good. Like he’s got some control over the situation. It’s a lie, but the guys don’t need to know that. 

When Dean gets upstairs to the office, Bobby’s waiting, sitting in his chair, hands folded together on his disaster of a desk. There’s paperwork everywhere, magazines and folders and god knows what else, strewn about in a way navigable only by Bobby himself. 

“Have a seat,” Bobby says.

There’s absolutely no emotion in those three small words. 

Dean’s been on the receiving end of righteous anger, more than once. This, though. _This…_ It sets Dean on edge in a way that even Dad on a disciplinarian tear would never have been able to do. Dean has to move a few car parts catalogs from the chair, but he does as Bobby says, and he does it without question. 

_You’re doing your best,_ he tells himself. But it’s barely a whisper.

The other voice in his head, the louder one, is pounding at the inside of his skull.

_You were late to work again. You’re lazy. You’re irresponsible. Just like with that stupid lamp. Broke it, didn’t even pick it up. He doesn’t know. But you do. You know. It’s all the same. It’s you. It’s you, yourself, you worthless bastard. You deserve the reaming out that’s coming your way._

He sits, and he looks at Bobby, and the silence between them is heavy, oppressive, like the air just before a storm.

Dean can feel something welling up in his throat. An excuse? A justification? It’s there, and it’s building, but it’s stoppered by guilt. Dean’s got responsibilities and he’s failing to fulfill them. He’s falling short. He’s guilty.

God damn, why is it so hot in here?

He opens his mouth and closes it. Bobby just stares back, waiting for something that Dean’s not actually sure is ever going to come. Dean opens his mouth, closes it again. He’s never felt so stupid and useless in his life.

An eternity later, Bobby sighs. “You wanna tell me what’s going on with you, or are we just gonna sit here and have ourselves a staring contest?”

_Staring contest._ Dean gulps. It doesn’t help.

Bobby sighs again. He rises with a groan and walks to his minifridge in the corner. He reaches in, glass clinks together, and he pulls out two beers. Without saying anything, Bobby brings one to Dean.

It doesn’t register at first. Dean stares down at the cold glass bottle in his hand. It’s the cheap stuff, but it’s still a beer. Why is he being rewarded? Why isn’t Bobby tearing him a new asshole? Dad would have been.

Bobby uses the bottle opener on his key ring to pop the cap off his own beer. He leans against his desk and takes a swig, looking down at Dean with that unnervingly blank expression. It takes Dean a second to realize Bobby’s holding out the opener to him.

Dean takes it. His movements are slow, cautious, but he gets the bottle open and raises the beer to his lips. It’s cold, and that’s about the best thing that can be said for it. He swallows, and although it may not make him feel better, it does open up his throat. “Look, Bobby,” he says. He’s staring down at the bottle in his hands, picking idly at the edge of the label. “It was… I lost track of time.”

“Half an hour last Friday, fifteen yesterday, cutting it close to an hour today. Once or twice is one thing, but looks to me like you’re making a habit of it.”

Dean grimaces. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m… That’s on me. I’ll, uh…” His voice trails off. There’s nothing he can say. 

“Dean.” Bobby’s voice has a hint of the sternness that Dean had been expecting. He closes his eyes against it. But then Bobby says, “Look at me, boy.” And Dean does.

Bobby’s expression has softened, but his voice is still firm. “The workday starts at eight around here,” he says, “and I can’t dole out preferential treatment. Get what I’m saying?”

Dean can’t help the groan that escapes him. Preferential treatment. Like having a beer with a guy when you should be firing him. Dean’s getting away with something here. Christ, he feels so fucking guilty. “Look, Bobby, I, uh…” He takes in a low, deep breath. “If you’re regretting hiring me on, I understand. I can---”

“For god’s sake, boy,” Bobby interrupts him. He slams his bottle down on his desk and folds his arms in front of his chest. “Sometimes things happen. Can’t help that. I ain’t gonna fire ya just for being late once in a while. I’m just saying it needs to be once in a while, and not a habit.” Bobby looks at him, and his frown deepens. “When was the last time you got a full night’s sleep?”

Dean shrugs and takes another swig of his beer. It’s better than answering with the truth.

Bobby grunts. “Do me a favor, would ya? Go home. Go to sleep. Come back tomorrow, eight AM.”

“Dude, I’m here, I can work.”

“Not if I don’t let ya.” Bobby puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. It’s heavy, but it’s warm. “Take the day, okay, Dean? I’m asking, but if I need to tell you to do it, I will.”

Dean lets out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Bobby repeats. He holds his hand on Dean’s shoulder for a moment longer, and when he pulls away, it’s subtle, but it feels like a quick, affectionate squeeze.

Dean doesn’t deserve it. Any of it.

There’s a rock in his stomach as he gets into his Impala, and the whole drive back to the apartment, Dean is fighting to get rid of it. 

It’s only when he unlocks the front door that he remembers his goddamn coat.


	6. Eileen

Even getting into the rhythm of the workday, Eileen feels like she’s distracted. Every time the front door opens, every single time the next customer walks in, Eileen feels a wave of hope rise and crash into disappointment within her. It’s always just another person on their way to work, stopping in for a breakfast muffin or a coffee to go.

It’s not him. It’s never him.

It’s been barely more than an hour since he left, but it feels like it’s been longer than that.

She honestly has no idea why this particular man has got her brain stuck in such a loop. He was handsome, yes. But that on its own wouldn’t be enough to make her react this way. She works with a handsome man every day. Granted, there’s no romance between her and Cas. But there was no romance between her and the man in plaid either.

Perhaps it’s the novelty of the situation that’s got her like this. It’s minor, but it’s a definite snag to the normal flow of her day. They’ve never had a customer leave their entire coat behind before. It was probably bound to happen sooner or later. Inevitable with the nature of running a public establishment. But it hasn’t happened, not until today. And getting thrown off her groove, no matter how minor the snag, that does always get under her skin. But this. It feels different.

Perhaps she’s fixating on his reaction to tasting his cinnamon roll. That sudden, overwhelming emotion in his face. Transforming his features from merely handsome to stunning - nearing beatific. It was the strangest, most ethereal thing. Intense. Unforgettable.

_Or maybe it’s more selfish than that,_ she admits with a sigh. Maybe it was how he was deliberately considerate toward her.

Went out of his way to be considerate.

The more she thinks on it, the more she’s sure that must be it. He hadn’t had to do that. It was small. It barely mattered. But then, because it was so small, it matters more. A small inconsequential moment that nonetheless has taken up space rent free inside her mind. 

She’s dwelling on it.

None of the other customers they’ve had this morning have given her that much consideration. Most have been pleasant enough. No one as rude as that beige woman before. But the interactions are purely transactional. Whereas with him…

Honestly, it hadn’t been much more than that. She lets out a dry, wry chuckle, laughing at herself. She’s overthinking. She’s always overthinking.

But even as she recognizes that, she keeps on doing it.

Her musings are interrupted when Cas comes out of the kitchen. He’s wiping his hands clean with a damp paper towel. There’s flour on his apron, handprints on the hips. Something had him frustrated back there.

She gives him a smile and the opportunity to vent, if he needs it. “How’s it going?”

“The shortbread refuses to cooperate,” he says. His voice is flat, deadpan, but there’s a determination to the set of his jaw. 

He’ll get it figured out. She knows he will.

Cas tosses the paper towel in the trash can behind the counter. “How’s it going out here?”

“We’re out of chocolate cupcakes,” Eileen answers. “There’s only a few blueberry muffins left, and we’re half gone on the cheesecake macaroons.”

Eileen watches Cas as he considers that. He’s doing math in his head, his dark eyebrows knit together, his bright blue eyes darting over the gaps and fullnesses of the display case.

Yes, absolutely, if she was ever distracted by handsome men, she’d never get a single thing done around here.

The phone rings. Normally, Cas would answer it from the extension in the kitchen, but since he’s out here, he picks up the phone at the counter. “Café Mariposa,” he says. “How can we help you today?” Eileen can see him still counting the remaining macaroons, and it takes a second for him to pull his focus.

When he does, he straightens up. His grip tightens on the receiver in such a subtle motion that Eileen almost misses it. She frowns a little.

“Yes, sir, we do have that.”

There’s a pause while Cas listens to the person on the end of the other line. He glances over at Eileen, and the shine in his eyes is as close to a wink as a look could be without actually being one.

“Of course. We’re open until eight.”

Cas smiles, and although it could be directed at whatever the person on the phone is saying, Eileen is just about a thousand percent positive that smile is for her.

“It’s no problem, sir. Happy to help.” Cas hangs up and he answers Eileen’s question before she’s asked it. “He’ll be back for his coat later today.”

_Gorgeous._ Eileen grins. And then she notices how Cas is still smiling back at her. Even if she didn’t know him half as well as she does, she would pick up on that. There’s obviously meaning in these expressions he's been sending her way, but she can't quite piece together the whole picture. It doesn't make sense. They’re operating on two different wavelengths. He thinks she---

Eileen’s eyebrows shoot up and she shakes her head. Even before the realization has fully formed in her mind, she’s hurrying to correct him. “It isn’t like that,” she says.

Cas tilts his head at her. “What do you mean?”

“I wouldn’t,” she says. “Not just from one meeting.”

“Oh.” Cas looks at her, the question still in his eyes. “I thought…” 

His voice trails off, leaving the topic floating tenuously in the air between them.

Eileen's anxiety is starting to prickle up, and she decides to squash it with levity. “Not this time, but who knows. Maybe someday Chris Hemsworth will stop by and sweep me off my feet.” 

At that, Cas seems to deflate. There’s a frown playing about the edges of his mouth, even though he’s not allowing it to form.

Eileen reaches out and puts her hand on his forearm. “Cas,” she asks, giving him a gentle squeeze. “Are you really that worried about me?” 

His eyes stare straight back into hers. _Concern. Care. Love._ But then, she doesn’t have to decipher that, when he says, out loud, “Your happiness is important to me.”

Eileen’s heart gives two solid thumps in her chest and she leans in to give him a hug. He immediately hugs her in return, almost as if he’d been planning to do the same thing. She holds him close, her palms flat on his back, and she tilts her head back to look up at him. “I am happy,” she says. 

He smiles back at her, but there’s still a hesitance in his eyes. Like he doesn’t quite believe her when she says it.

Eileen tightens her arms around him. “I mean it, Cas. I love my life. I love this job. I can’t tell you how much I love this job. I love this job and I love you.”

He gives her a smile, but it’s a sad one.

She pats him on the back, a gentle yet firm reprimand. “You’ve given me the best job in the entire world and you’re worried that’s not enough for me. CAS.”

There. That coaxes a happier smile to his face. He’s still got an oddly wistful note floating in the depths of his eyes as he says, “I was thinking.”

“I know,” Eileen says, and she releases the hug to pat him on the cheek, with that same gentle firmness as before. “I wouldn’t fall in love like that, and not with him.” _Modern day Adonis or not,_ Eileen thinks, _the man’s clearly got some demons._ “But oh, Cas, you should’ve seen it. When he---”

The front door opens, and a woman comes in. She’s been here a few times before, not enough to be a regular quite yet, but often enough for Eileen to remember her face. From the glazed look in her bespectacled eyes, Eileen assumes she’s here for coffee again.

“Hold that thought,” Cas says. He smiles down at Eileen, and then turns that smile to the woman with only the tiniest shift in intensity. “Good morning. How can we help you today?”

“I’d like a large caramel coffee,” she says. Her voice is pleasant, but still half asleep. “To go. And one of those raspberry danishes, please.” 

Cas pours the coffee, Eileen wraps up the danish. They work smoothly, in sync, despite the relatively small space behind the counter, and if Cas doesn’t see how much she loves being here, surely this has to help make it more obvious. She’s at home here. She belongs here. 

The woman pays in cash but doesn’t take her change - she has Cas drop the two dollars directly into the tip jar. She thanks them, and she leaves.

The instant the front door clicks shut, Eileen turns back to Cas. She needs to tell him before she gets interrupted, AGAIN. “The way he ate his cinnamon roll. Cas. Cas, it was beautiful. Like each bite was…” She pauses and shuts her eyes, remembering. “Like…” How can she even put that expression into words? “Like you’d made bliss edible.”

She opens her eyes again, and Cas is giving her a quiet grin. “Edible bliss,” he repeats, in that deadpan way of his.

“I’m not exaggerating,” Eileen insists. “His whole face lit up. Like the Fourth of July. Pure, distilled, edible bliss.”

Cas leans over, his crossed forearms resting on the counter, and chews on that for a minute. Whatever he’s imagining, it’s nowhere near to what Eileen actually saw. She wishes she could draw him a picture. She wishes she’d caught it on camera. She---

Oh.

_There’s an idea._

Eileen doesn’t let that idea take complete shape yet. At the moment it’s only tenuous, not a real thing. Not yet. If she can make it happen, though. If he’ll agree.

Eileen rubs her arms. Where on earth did those goosebumps come from?


	7. Sam

Sam never minds doing his mandatory office hours. Linguistics can be a tricky subject, especially for students who’ve never encountered the terminology before, and he’s glad to help where he can. When it comes to Miss Rosen, though... He’s beginning to suspect she doesn’t actually need as much help as she claims to need, especially considering that she’s in her fourth year. 

“I’m sorry,” she says with a sigh. She taps her index finger gingerly on the practice handout on the desk between them. “I don’t know why this doesn’t make sense to me.”

“All right,” Sam says. “Let’s lose the jargon. Think of it like building blocks. Every word is made of building blocks, one or more that work in conjunction with each other to form meaning.”

“A building block… Like, love?”

Sam gives her a half-nod. “Love is a morpheme, because it’s a standalone word that holds meaning in itself. But there are many morphemes that aren’t words on their own. Prefixes and suffixes, pluralization, verb tenses. Take this one, here, number seven. Talking. Talk is one morpheme, and -ing is another. Talk stands by itself, but -ing doesn’t.”

Becky sighs again. “What about desire, Professor?”

Sam frowns a little. That isn’t on his handout. But it is a good example. “That would be a morpheme, yes. If you try to break it in half, into de- as a prefix and sire as the root word, the meaning of the word as a whole would change entirely. So, even though both de- and sire can be morphemes, in that case they aren’t.”

She’s honest to god pouting at him now. “I hope you don’t mind helping me so often, Professor. It’s just that this is all so new to me.”

“It’s new to everyone,” Sam says, in a calm and placating tone, despite the frustration he’s feeling. “Just take this,” he slides the handout toward her across his desk, “do your best, and we’ll go over it in class on Thursday.”

She takes it from him in a long, drawn out movement, reluctant to leave. When she pauses at the door and looks back to him, she might as well have LOVE YOU drawn on her eyelids. It’s only through sheer force of will that Sam holds back an uncomfortable grimace.

She leaves, and that’s officially one more pepper earned, despite how little he wants it.

Looking past the space where Miss Rosen had been, he sees Professor MacLeod standing in the open doorway of his office on the opposite side of the hall, grinning over at him. Sam unleashes the grimace, and MacLeod lets out a sardonic chuckle. “Got yourself another one, have you, Himeros?”

His British voice only serves to make his tone doubly sarcastic. The only response Sam offers him, the only one he deserves for that quip, is a flat-lipped frown.

MacLeod tuts at him. “Really? A bitchface? Hardly professional, Winchester.” He saunters over to lean against Sam’s doorway, and adjusts the cuffs of his suit like he’s got all the time in the world. “There, there, nothing to be frustrated about. It’s not your fault you don’t know the minor deities by heart. It’s not mine either, so if you would just unruffle those feathers for me.”

“Is there something I can help you with?”

MacLeod feigns injury, one hand to his chest, his eyes wide. “What kind of world are we living in where a man can’t have a casual conversation without his motives being questioned?”

Sam just stares at him.

With an eye-roll, MacLeod capitulates. “Hoping you’d be up for a babysitting job this Friday at six. Nothing major, just a Scantron test. Hand them out, pick them up, Bob’s your uncle.”

“And you can’t do this because?”

MacLeod makes a show of inspecting his fingernails. “A man’s affairs are his own.”

Sam shoots him another flat-lipped frown, but MacLeod is right. He doesn’t need to give a reason. But he will need to deliver compensation of some kind. Sam might be generous, but not to a fault. At least, not when it comes to people who aren't his brother. Sam sighs and forces his attention back to the matter at hand. “You’ll owe me one.”

The grin that comes across MacLeod’s face then is sketchy as hell, but he says, “I know how to return a favor, darling. Watch over my ducklings on Friday, and some day when you need it, I’ll watch over yours.”

It’s a fair enough offer, and Sam doesn’t have anything else to do on a Friday evening. It's unfortunate, but those are the repercussions of having no social life to speak of. Sam exhales, softly, through his nose, and says, “Deal.”

MacLeod gives him a pleased smile that could almost be called honest. “Thank you, Professor Winchester. Much appreciated.” Then, glancing out down the hallway, his face falls. “Duty calls,” he says as a lanky undergrad walks up to his office door and hesitates, shuffling anxiously. “In you get,” he says, shooing the boy toward the open office. “I’ll be a moment.”

The boy glances up, just once, at the intricately designed poster displayed over MacLeod’s door. “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate,” it reads. MacLeod chuckles as the boy goes into his office. He looks back to Sam, a gleam in his eye.

“If they’d done the reading, they’d see the humor.” MacLeod scratches at the stubble on his cheek and shakes his head, slightly, almost pityingly. “They never do.”

“Right,” Sam says. This conversation is over now, surely.

MacLeod, thankfully, seems to think the same. “I’ll email you the exam. Ta.” And he heads for his office, and the student within.

Sam looks wearily at the clock. The conversation may not have dragged on forever, but it did take him beyond the time when he would normally start heading for home. He stands and stretches his back. That feels good.

As he makes his way back across campus, the sun is out and the air is warmer. That feels good.

Opening his door to his apartment, to home and rest and respite, that feels good.

Seeing the cord to his landline snaking across his living room, that does not.

Sam shuts the door behind him and walks past the kitchenette into his apartment proper. The whole phone, base and all, has been dragged across the room, and it’s sitting on the floor next to the couch. Next to Dean’s hand, his arm hanging down, the backs of his fingers trailing against the carpet. The rest of Dean is facedown and unconscious, using his other arm as a pillow and taking up the entire couch.

For half a second Sam is very confused. He hadn’t overstayed his office hours that long, had he? He looks up at the clock on the wall, and no, it’s only half past three in the afternoon. Dean is absolutely not supposed to be here yet.

Sam clears his throat. Dean’s arm twitches, but otherwise, no response. Sam clears his throat again, louder.

“Mmmfaa,” Dean says, his voice muffled.

“Dean,” Sam says.

Dean shifts, lifting halfway up onto his side. He doesn’t open his eyes. “What,” he says, a flat statement rather than a question.

“What are you doing here?” Sam sets his briefcase down on the counterspace separating the kitchenette from the rest of the apartment.

“I live here,” Dean says. He rolls back over onto his face. Sam can’t be sure what Dean says then, since he’s muffled by the couch again, but at the same time, that definitely sounded like “bitch.”

“Dean,” Sam says, and he walks closer to him. “Is everything okay?”

Dean groans. With some effort, he pulls himself up into a sitting position. “Yeah,” he says, running a hand over his face. “Peachy.”

“So why are you here in the middle of the day?”

Dean’s eyes open, bleary but full of an emotion that Sam can’t quite place. It’s not quite resentment, not quite exhaustion. Dean’s jaw works for a second, and then he says, “Bobby gave me the day off. Wanted me to catch up on sleep. I was doing a pretty good job of it, too, until you showed up.”

Sam refuses to feel guilty here, not when his only crimes are coming home after work and being concerned about his brother. He absolutely refuses. Instead, he follows the thread that’s been given to him. “You definitely need it. Your sleep cycle is all out of whack.”

Dean scoffs and shoots Sam a smirk. “That the technical term, Professor?”

“I’m serious,” Sam says. “What are you averaging now? Four hours a night? Bobby’s right. You should come back here when you get off work instead of---”

“Instead of what?” Dean interrupts him. “Last time I checked, I’m in charge of my free time. Not Bobby, and it sure as hell ain’t you.”

“Aren’t you tired of that bar yet? What are you---”

“Sammy, please. Not now.” Dean closes his eyes and falls back into the couch, his head lolling against the armrest. “I’m fucking exhausted, man. Give me a goddamn break.”

That sends such a rage surging through him, Sam can hardly stand it. He’s been doing nothing BUT giving Dean goddamn breaks. He’s not even asking for a full half rent, considering the couch situation. Not that Dean would appreciate that. Not that Dean would even care. 

_You son of a bitch._

Sam swallows that anger. Nothing good comes from letting it out. Nothing.

“I get it,” Sam says, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I mean, I don’t get it, but if you’d talk to me---”

Dean’s eyes snap open. “Just pencil me in for a session, Dr. Phil. We’ll sit here, talk it all out, you can even hold my hand if you want.”

“Damn it, Dean.” It’s out before Sam can even think about holding it back. He winces. This is going downhill fast, and now it's too late to apply the brakes.

Dean rises to his feet and steps up to Sam. “You wanna take a swing, big man, go ahead and do it.” His chin’s lifted, his gaze defiant - like the five inches Sam has on him don’t count for squat.

They stand, staring at each other. Sam’s anger is mirrored in Dean’s eyes, and both of them have their hands balled into fists. Where the hell has this come from? Why is he always so difficult? Why is this always so hard?

Then Dean does something completely unexpected. His expression softens and his shoulders relax. He unclenches his fists. And he lifts one hand, slowly, and rests it against Sam’s upper arm. “Look, man. I, uh…” Dean frowns, chewing on his words. He takes a breath, lets it out, and then lowers his hand again. “I gotta go.”

That throws Sam off balance. “What?”

“Yeah, I, uh…” Dean circles around past Sam and makes his way to the front door. “I forgot my coat earlier. Gotta go get my wallet before they close.”

“Bobby wouldn’t close on you.”

“Different place,” is all Dean says. He opens the door, then hesitates, looking back at Sam. For a second, he considers something. Then he says, “I’ll get you another lamp. This weekend.” He gives Sam a quiet smile, and honest to god, it’s actually apologetic. “Won’t break it either.”

With that, he’s gone.

Sam stands for a second in the silence of his apartment, suddenly surrounded by an almost physical absence. It’s an unwelcome feeling. He sighs, and turns to make his way to his room. It’s then that he notices all the remnants of that broken lamp are gone. 

Upon further inspection, Dean’s put the broom and dustpan back in their proper places, and he’s even taken out the trash.

Sam sinks onto the couch and rests his head in his hands.


	8. Castiel

There are four pots of fruit compote bubbling on the stove and two trays of almonds toasting in the oven. Cas has always been good at multitasking, and here, in his kitchen, he’s learned how best to balance everything. Some of his creations, the pastries in particular, require a lot of prep work, and if he can get that done in the afternoons, he won’t have to worry about it come the morning.

There’s always so much to do. It’s a wonder he finds the time to sleep. But he’s learned his lesson on that front, and he learned it the hard way. Once, a long time ago, he tried to push himself, tried to get too much done despite coasting on fumes, and the results were disastrous. Croissants that weren’t flaky, biscotti that were. Now, for the good of the café and for his own wellbeing, Cas keeps himself to a strict schedule. Up at four in the morning, asleep by no later than nine at night. It’s rigourous, but it’s working.

Once the café starts turning a significant profit, Cas can start thinking about hiring another baker, another set of hands to help him in the kitchen. For now, though… 

For now.

It isn’t that they aren’t making a profit. It’s just that they’re _just_ making it. All of his expenses are covered, and he even has some spare change to rub together at the end of the month. 

Still, if anything were to happen. If the oven were to break, or if the pipes were to burst, or if they suddenly had to face any of the other random miseries that could strike at any moment... 

There’s not much room for emergencies.

Cas stirs each of the compotes. They’re just about done. Which means the almonds should be ready to come out. He slides over to the oven and checks. Yes, they’re perfect.

As he puts the almonds down on the cooling rack, the phone rings. His eyes dart over to the pots on the stove. He can’t leave them for too much longer. He'll just have to manage both.

He lifts the handset from its base and tucks it to his ear, holding it in place against his shoulder with his head tilted to the side. “Café Mariposa,” he says as he crosses over to the stove. “How can we help you today?”

“Good afternoon,” the woman on the other end says. “My daughter went to a friend’s birthday party this last weekend and I understand you made the refreshments. I was wondering if you would be able to make a custom cake?”

“Of course,” Cas says. He pulls the compotes away from the heat, stirring them each a few more times. “We’re always open to taking custom orders.”

“Wonderful,” she says. “Would you be able to do a two-layer vanilla cake with strawberries?”

“We'd love to make that for you," Cas replies. "Would you want the strawberries as a decoration or between the layers?”

“Both, if you could,” the woman says.

As she starts describing what she’d like the outer decoration to look like, the kitchen door swings open and Eileen comes in. Her face is a bit flushed, and her mouth is open as if she means to say something. But then, when she realizes he’s on the phone, her expression falters. She shakes her head and signs at him, _He’s here. When you’re done._ She pulls that tan coat down from the apron rack, and then she’s gone again.

Cas has to make himself swing his attention back to the woman on the phone. Half of him absolutely regrets the necessity. “I’m sorry,” he says, “did you want buttercream or whipped frosting?”

“Whipped, please,” the woman says. 

“Would you please hold for a minute?” Cas asks. “I need to find a pencil.”

“I will,” she answers. She’s very nice about it, despite his distraction, and Cas forces himself to focus.

Cas sets the receiver down on a counter and switches the heat off the stove. The compotes look fine, and they can rest a minute without his input. But a pencil and a pad, that’s what he was needing.

He pulls open a few drawers. He could have sworn he’d decided to keep one near the phone back here. He could have sworn, and yet he’s coming up empty. He straightens up and rests his hands on his hips. This is incredibly frustrating.

 _There’s one by the phone out front,_ he remembers. He strides purposefully out into the café.

There’s a line at the counter, almost out the front door. The after school crowd has arrived, laughing and joking and making themselves at home. It’s just a little bit loud, and always boisterous, but somehow these teenagers never quite cross that line from exuberant to irritating. Honestly, they’re absolutely welcome, and it’s not just because they help keep the register full. They’re joyfully alive, and who doesn’t like remembering the joy of being alive every once in a while?

If it were warmer outside, the kids would get their things and gather on the patio area out front. As it is, they’re taking up all the tables and milling near the windows. A quick, curious glance around, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone here older than twenty, much less wearing a tan coat. Cas shrugs off that thought. He has a mission.

Cas goes behind the counter to grab the pencil and pad from beside the phone. Eileen glances up at him from behind the display, halfway through plating the last of the red velvet cupcakes, with a question in her eyes. He lifts the pad and points to it, to explain what he’s doing out here.

Her eyebrows shoot up. She shakes her head, as if that wasn’t the question she wanted the answer to. She signs up at him, _He’s still here. He’s in the restroom._

Cas’s eyebrows rise as well, in his case from immediate intrigue. But then he shrugs and shakes the pad again, pointing back to the kitchen. He doesn’t have the time to hang out, no matter how much Eileen clearly wants him to wait.

He heads back to the kitchen, and behind him he hears Eileen say, with a sigh in her voice that has nothing to do with what she’s actually saying, “That’ll be seven fifty.”

Cas hurries to the phone and lifts it to his ear again. “I’m sorry about that. Thank you for holding. Are you still there?”

“It’s no problem,” the woman says, and Cas relaxes. She sounds like she means it. “Where were we?”

“You were wanting a vanilla cake,” Cas says as he writes that down on the notepad. “With sliced strawberries between two layers and arranged into flowers on the top. Whipped frosting, you said?”

“Yes, please. Just plain white, it doesn’t need to be too fancy. Could you write ‘Happy Birthday, Lexie’ on the top? L-E-X-I-E. In green, if you could, light green. That’s her favorite color.”

“We can do that,” Cas says, writing it down. “Do you have a preference in shape? Round, rectangle?”

“Round will be fine,” the woman says. “Can I pick it up on Saturday?”

“We should be able to have it ready for you then,” Cas answers. “If you’d like to pay now, I can take your card over the phone, or you can wait until you come in.”

“I can pay now. How much will it be?”

The only card reader is the one out front. Cas starts to walk back out. “An eight inch round will be---” He glances up through the window as he reaches for the door. 

He stops. 

He stares. 

Oh dear god, his brain has shut down.

This is not how normal people behave. This is not a normal human reaction. 

But then again, that man standing at the counter… that’s not a normal human man.

Eileen had called him gorgeous. Gorgeous is an understatement. Gorgeous doesn’t even half begin to describe the man standing at the counter. Sharp eyes under long lashes. Light freckles on the bridge of his nose and the curves of his cheeks. That strong, masculine jawline paired with those full, inviting lips... It’s unbelievable. It’s too much to take in.

“Are you there?”

Men like this don’t belong in his café. They don’t exist in reality.

“Did I lose you?”

“I’m sorry,” Cas says. His voice comes out in a croak, and he has to clear his throat. “I’m sorry. Our card reader seems to be experiencing a few issues at the moment. Would it be all right if we wait for Saturday?”

Cas watches as the man leans an elbow on the counter. He’s smiling at Eileen, and oh dear god, that smile. It’s charming and flirty and for one brilliant, bitter second, Cas wishes to god it was directed at him.

Who is he kidding. There’s no way. Just no way.

Not when he looks like that, and not when he’s looking at Eileen like that.

“...to pick it up?”

Cas clears his throat again. “I’m sorry...”

“Will that not work? I could pick it up in the afternoon instead.”

“No,” Cas says. He forces himself to tear his eyes away. He walks over to the decorating station and sits down. He sets the notepad down on the table, places his hand flat down beside it. That's not a tremor in his fingers. His hands aren't shaking. Not at all. Because that would be ridiculous. Cas takes in a breath and says, “We can have it ready by Saturday morning.”

“Wonderful,” the woman says. “Thank you so much!”

“You’re welcome,” Cas says. “Thank you for your order. I hope Lexie has a great birthday.”

“Thank you! See you Saturday!”

The woman hangs up before Cas does. He listens to the dial tone for a second before punching the button on the handset to end the call. He sets it down next to the notepad. Then he rests his palm against the table. Both hands, now flat on the tabletop. Phone, notepad, order. Everything is normal. Everything is fine.

His heart is jumping in his chest like a popcorn kernel in hot oil.

But everything is fine.


	9. Dean

It’s hard to hear himself think in here, with a dozen conversations ping-ponging around him. But that’s not a problem. Dean doesn’t have to think to flirt. It’s as natural as breathing and strengthened by practice, doubly effective when it’s aimed at a cute brunette like the one behind the counter. 

Dean’s always had a thing for cute brunettes.

Her face is gently flushed, a dusting of light rose over pale skin. It looks good on her. Brings out the brown of her eyes. Which, now he can’t help but notice, are looking at him with all the bearing of a wild deer, deep and wide and startled.

Dean reads the room. He dials the charm down from eleven, switches out his flirty smile for a friendly one. It’s a bummer, but he shrugs, and any disappointment he feels rolls off his shoulders.

_Can’t win ‘em all._

“Thanks,” he tells her one last time, adding the quick gesture by his chin. “For holding my stuff for me.”

He makes to leave, but then--- “Wait!”

Dean turns back to her. She’s still got that blush on her cheeks, but this time, he knows it’s got nothing to do with his casual flirtation.

“Would you… could...” She stops herself. She’s got the corner of her lip between her teeth, biting it softly as she gathers her thoughts. It’s _almost_ flirtatious, but he can tell it’s an unconscious action, not a deliberate one.

“Whatcha got?” he asks her. Despite himself, he’s intrigued. She’s not fishing for a date - she’s definitely sending the signals to shut that shit down - and he can’t think of anything else she might want from him. 

_Not like you’ve got a hell of a lot else to offer._

Dean fights back a grimace and tells himself to shut the fuck up. He’s in the middle of a conversation here. _Now is not the fucking time._

He points his attention back at her. She takes a steadying breath, and starts to say something, but cuts herself short when the outer door swings open. A gaggle of tweens come in from the street, loudly complaining about an exam they’ve taken today. Her gaze slides over to them, and her mouth thins out.

Whether it’s in regret or relief, Dean can’t quite tell.

She looks back to Dean, and asks him, “Could you wait a minute? Until I’ve served these customers. I have a proposition.” She blinks at him, rapidfire, and waves one of her hands, tripping over her words in her haste to rephrase. “Busi--- business--- I have a business proposition, if you’re interested. Please?”

Hell if he’s not, with the questions he has now.

He should say no, go back to the apartment, try to sleep.

But with Sam probably still being awake, and with that conversation unfinished… 

He could kill some time here, sure.

“No problem,” he says. “I’ll just,” and he points over to the side. She smiles at him then, and that IS relief. Gratitude, even. Damn if that doesn’t pique his curiosity even more. What the hell is she going to ask him?

Dean steps out of the way, and the new arrivals gather by the register.

“Aw,” a blonde kid says in a peal of disappointment. She crouches down by the displays, her long braids almost touching the floor. “They’re out of cupcakes.”

“ALL of them?” A redheaded girl with braces peers over the blonde’s head, to inspect the display for herself. She turns to the woman - Eileen, Dean corrects himself - and asks, “Are there really no more cupcakes?”

Eileen shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she says, and she really sounds like she means it.

The girls let out a chorus of soft, despondent moans. Dean sympathizes. There’s slim pickings left, here in the late afternoon, and he’s sure it’s largely due to the swarm of teenage locusts that have descended. This place is hopping. 

But damn. If things taste half as good as they look, it’s no wonder.

 _Cinnamon._ It’s more a feeling than a conscious thought. Dean runs his tongue over his teeth and takes in a deep breath through his nose. He can still smell it in the air. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

The girls debate for a while and end up deciding to buy the last of the wildflower cookies. From his vantage point by the window, Dean watches Eileen gather them into a bag, and he still can’t get over the detailing. Practically museum-quality watercolor. Maybe it’s just frosting, thinned out and tinted with food dye? You couldn’t do that with just water and food coloring, could you? He’s gonna have to ask.

A lanky little dude in a blue beanie comes in just as the girls are wrapping up. Dean waves his hand to let the kid know he’s not in line. As his eyes follow the guy to the register, he catches Eileen’s glance toward him. 

She’s not into him, but she’s real worried he might bail.

He tosses her a sideways grin and points to the floor. _I’m not going anywhere, take your time._

She lets out a sigh of relief and turns to get the new kid’s order with a smile that reaches her eyes.

Finally, finally, Eileen is free to talk again. Dean ambles back up to the display counter and rests his left forearm on it, crossing his legs casually at the ankles. “So,” he says. “Business proposition?”

Eileen tightens her ponytail as she steps closer to him. An interesting gesture. Almost as if it bolsters her resolve. “Yes,” she says. “I was wondering if… would you… I’m working on building our online presence.”

Dean nods encouragement, waiting for more. If she wants a tech expert, he could try and help. But his skill set tends more toward practical application, building physical things. And why would she think he’s the right guy anyway? What about him screams computer nerd?

“What we need is better word of mouth. It would help us,” she says. “YOU could really help us.”

Dean raises one eyebrow at her. “So, what, you’re asking me to write you a review or something?” _Bad idea. You’d want Sam for that kind of thing._ The thought stabs him directly between the ribs, and he bites it back.

She takes in a sharp breath and shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m not explaining very well. I wouldn’t want anything scripted. I’d want people to see your honest reactions.”

“MY reactions?” Dean laughs and straightens up. Suddenly he needs his feet to be flat on the floor. “Why?”

 _This is a trap,_ that ugly voice in his head tells him. _Why would she want you for that? This is some kind of joke. YOU’RE a joke._

“We’d pay you for your time,” she says, sharply, as if she’s worried she’s losing him. 

She’s not entirely wrong there. 

But then, when she says, “We could start with the cinnamon roll,” that pulls him back.

“Let me get this straight.” He says it slowly, testing the idea out. “You want a video of me eating.” Suspicion hits him like an eighteen-wheeler and he narrows his eyes at her. “This a sex thing?”

“Oh, no!” Eileen’s hand goes up to her throat, and she seems honestly shocked that he’d even thought that was a possibility. “Just as a spokesman, that’s all, that’s all I was thinking, I wouldn’t have---”

“Okay,” Dean says, raising his palms up toward her. “That’s cool. You’re good. I had to ask.” He lets out a short, dry laugh. “You gotta know this is kinda weird.”

“Is it?” Eileen bites at her lip again. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up, I don’t want---” She cuts herself off and takes a step backward. “Thank you for your time. Have a nice day.”

“Hang on a sec,” Dean says. “I didn’t say no.”

Her eyes, when she raises them to his face again, are quietly hopeful now.

“Spokesman,” Dean says, trying the word on for size. It doesn’t hit quite as weird now, but he’s still got questions. “What exactly would you want me to do?”

“What I was thinking,” Eileen steps back up to him, “was that I’d write something, a quick description of one of the things we sell here, and that I’d film you reading that, and then tasting whatever it was, and then you’d give us your impressions of it. Just a short little video, like a commercial. You’d be perfect.” 

She stops to breathe, and Dean mulls over the idea. She’d gotten so into describing what she’s wanting, letting the proposal tumble out of her in such an animated rush - she hadn’t actually MEANT to call him perfect.

Dean. Perfect. The fucking absurdity of it.

He’s a good-looking dude, that much he knows. He’s gotten way too much action for it to be otherwise. But it sounds like she’s wanting something with a little more finesse than your average last call pickup requires. 

“I’m no Shakespeare,” he says, slowly, hesitantly. “Not so much with the words.”

“I wouldn’t want that,” she insists again. “It would feel scripted.”

Dean rests his arms on the counter. It's not like he needs the support. It's just a more comfortable pose, that's all. “You could get a better spokesdude,” he says, “an actor with actual training and shit. I’m just some random asshole with an okay face. So I gotta ask. Why me?”

Eileen is not a tall woman by any stretch. He’s head and shoulders above her. But when she meets his eyes, she draws herself up, and there’s something almost regal about her now. 

"Café Mariposa sells the best baked goods in this city - in the world, as far as I’m concerned - and this morning, your face sent out that exact message, clear as day. I want to get that message out into the world where other people can see it."

She pauses, and the look she gives him then... It's like she's assessing him, not just his face, but HIM. It's intense. Suddenly he's self-conscious as hell, and Dean squares his shoulders against it.

When Eileen continues, her voice is steady, filled with absolute conviction. "You are not ‘just some random asshole with an okay face.’ You’re incredibly handsome, first off - that's just a fact. But there’s more to it than that. You don’t just appreciate our work. You value it. You're right, we could hire an actor, or a model. I'm sure we could find one. But it wouldn't be enough. It wouldn't be you.”

Dean’s chest feels strange. His lungs are full of warmth and static, like an old motel TV with bad reception. That sensation expands as he breathes, riding the blood in his veins. It’s the weirdest thing.

She’s crazy for thinking he’s perfect for this. He’s crazy for even considering it.

But hell. Why not. Free food.

“All right,” he says. He reaches out for a handshake. “I’m in.”


	10. Eileen

He’s agreed to it.

This is actually happening.

She’d been so worried she was losing him - she’d seen his doubts pass over his face, and he’d had quite a few of them just now. 

But here he is, holding out his hand toward her, and it’s actually going to happen.

Café Mariposa has a spokesman.

Relief spirals down her spine as she takes his hand. His grasp is firm and callused, and now that she’s closer to him, she can see traces of something dark deep beneath his fingernails. She can also see flecks of amber in his eyes, lending nuance to the vivid green. His gaze is warm and honest, and Eileen has never been so sure of a decision in her life.

They shake, and he’s the first to pull away.

Eileen feels another wash of relief. Thank goodness he’s stopped showing any romantic interest in her, and so easily, so smoothly dropped out of Flirt Mode on his own. If he hadn’t, she wouldn’t have been able to get the question out - she’d never have had the guts to go through with it.

She would never have been able to reject a man’s advances and then ask him to work with her anyway. 

But now she doesn’t have to worry about that. She doesn’t have to worry at all, strangely. There’s an unshakable certainty inside her now, a concrete fact as firmly set as her faith in her own abilities behind the register. This is right. This will work.

“So,” he says, “when do we start?”

Eileen hasn’t thought that far ahead. For a second she feels awkward about it. But then, why should she? She didn’t know for sure it was going to happen in the first place. So it’s really not a personal failing that she didn’t count her chickens before they’d hatched. 

She exhales slowly, giving herself the time to think. Part of her wants to start immediately, hand him something and start filming right here at the counter. But another part of her recognizes the flaws of that idea. For one, she hasn’t written anything up yet. For another, even though business is starting to ebb downward again, here in the later half of the afternoon, there’s still too much activity around. Too many distractions. “We would need to film outside of business hours,” she tells him. “What would work best for you? Mornings or evenings?”

“Evenings,” he answers immediately, practically automatically. But then he draws his eyebrows together. He glances down at the display case, and then back up to her. “Mornings.”

“Mornings?” Eileen repeats. 

She wonders what he’s thinking, why he self-corrected so sharply like that. She doesn’t know him well enough yet to read his face with a thousand percent accuracy. But from the way he looked down just now at the few remaining pastries, she suspects that might have something to do with it. Maybe he wants more variety in what’s available. Maybe he wants first dibs on what’s fresh from the oven. 

In the end, though, it doesn’t really matter why. She’s given him the option, so either way, it’s up to him.

“Mornings,” he says again, definitively this time. “It’ll have to be pretty early, though. I gotta get to work by eight.”

 _Oh, so THAT’S why,_ she thinks to herself, remembering the harried way he’d dashed out of here after he’d finished his breakfast. “Where do you work?”

“Singer’s,” he answers. “Auto shop across town.”

 _He’s a mechanic,_ she realizes. That explains those hands of his.

“It’s not too far from here,” he continues, “but my, uh, the boss has been on me about timekeeping. So. I gotta be in and out the door by seven-thirty.”

Eileen nods. “I understand. Would you be able to be here by six-thirty?” That would give them enough time to film without worrying about being rushed.

One corner of his mouth twitches slightly upward. _Skepticism. Regret?_

“Don’t know how useful I’ll be at six thirty in the morning,” he says.

“Oh,” she says. She pauses again, thinking. “What if you got here a little earlier than that and we made you coffee?”

His eyebrows rise, gently, almost imperceptibly, but that sparkle in his eyes is undeniable. “You could… maybe... cook up that breakfast plate again?”

“We could,” Eileen nods in agreement. “On the house, as part of your payment, if you’d like.”

He smiles at her then, and oh, wow, is it ever a good smile. Wide and bright and comfortable. He’s beautifully charming, effortlessly so, and beyond that, completely sincere.

This is the best idea she’s ever had.

Eileen finds herself smiling back at him. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning? At six?”

“Absofrigginlutely,” he says, with a quiet laugh in his voice. 

That’s it, then. Deal made. Plans made. Wheels set in motion.

She’s just so excited. She can’t wait to tell Cas.

Their conversation lapses into companionable silence. He makes no move to leave, even though there’s no real reason for him to stay. He’s just standing there, leaning back against the display counter, surveying the room.

“Nice place,” he says, after a minute.

“It is,” she says.

He looks at her now with an amused smile on his face, but he doesn’t say anything else.

For some strange reason, she has to fight down a giggle.

She finds an excuse to look away from him. The café is starting to empty out as the teenagers wrap things up. One of them gives her a casual goodbye wave on his way out the door. Eileen waves back.

“Doing pretty well, too, by the looks of it,” the man says. He makes a sound then, under his breath, a short exhalation that borders on scoff. “You sure you need my help?”

“Absofrigginlutely,” Eileen says on a whim.

He turns his face back toward her, smoothly but sharply. _Surprise? Wariness? Suspicion?_

He didn’t like that. Oh no. Anxiety flutters up into her throat, hot and acidic.

Eileen has never once winked at another person. It’s an exaggerated, cartoonish movement that’s just never felt right, never felt honest coming from her. But wow, does she feel the impulse to do it now, if only to change the vibes in the air. 

Instead, she makes herself meet his eyes, and she says, “I can’t tell you how much this will mean for us. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

His posture relaxes as he absorbs that. Then he laughs, low in his throat, and shakes his head. “So I eat a cupcake. It’s no big deal.”

“You’re going to convince so many other people to eat our cupcakes,” Eileen says, and she’s outright grinning at him now. She can’t help it. The happiness she’s feeling is just too much to contain. It’s escaping from her eyes and from her smile and from her throat and she tells him, before she has a chance to think about it, “I’m so excited I might die.”

He laughs again, and it’s a big one now, a rich belly laugh that has his eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s a first,” he says. There’s something more to it than just that, some deeper meaning that he’s keeping to himself.

Instead of sharing, he turns himself fully toward her and looks down at the display case. “Tell you the truth,” he says, “I get it.” He runs the back of his hand over his mouth, a quick unconscious motion. “Definitely. I’m… Yeah, I’m pretty fucking stoked.”

She sees his eyes linger on the last of the cheesecake macaroons. His throat moves - his mouth is watering, and he’s holding that back.

“We always have leftovers at the end of the day,” Eileen says. “If you have the time, we could do a practice run after closing?”

A thought flickers over his face, but whatever it is, he discards it fairly quickly. “Sure,” he says. “I could do that.”

It’s a fight to keep her voice casual despite all these sudden goosebumps on her arms. The potential of everything is starting to register, the vague notion tightening into a firmer reality.

“That’s great,” she says. It comes out breathier than she intended, and she feels her face warm. She keeps talking, trying to smooth past it. “It’s like they say, I guess, practice makes perfect, right?”

One side of his mouth turns up, a rueful sort of smirk, and he says, “Couldn’t hurt.”

The room is almost empty now. Other than a pair of stragglers sitting at one of the tables, it’s down to just Eileen and him. And then she realizes something ridiculous.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she can hardly believe it’s taken her this long to ask this. “What’s your name?”

He straightens up, blinks at her, like he’s surprised it hasn’t come up either. Then he smiles, and he gives her a quick, cheeky wink. 

_Now THAT’S how it’s done._

“Dean Winchester,” he says, and he holds out his hand toward her. “Nice to meet you, Eileen. Officially.”

She takes his hand again. It’s amazing. She’d expected to feel anxious about things for much longer, but this? It’s just so easy, so effortless. It’s like they’ve been friends for years. 

“Eileen Leahy,” she says. “It’s nice to meet you, Dean.”


End file.
